


Witchhazel Winter

by Nabooru



Category: Cats - Andrew Lloyd Webber
Genre: Canon Compliant, Character Death, Dark, F/M, Female Protagonist, Supernatural Elements, Witchcraft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-04
Updated: 2012-06-25
Packaged: 2017-11-06 20:19:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 1,992
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/422791
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nabooru/pseuds/Nabooru
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The world was gray and cold, and soon it would be winter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Snapping

The world was gray. Soon it would be winter, and it seemed that even the bones of the earth were infected with the cold. Clouds blanketed the sky with more gray, but their presence did little to instill a feeling of warmth. Tantomile would have felt cold even in the midst of summer.

Remembered words traced the edge of her consciousness, feelers of thought that disturbed her. They never fought. This was something altogether unexpected, some part of her plan that had gone unreasonably awry, and it made her angry. She was never angry. It was part of why she was here, instead of out on the streets somewhere. Hers was a calming presence, meant to settle disputes, not to begin them. And here she was, sitting alone, contemplating, and not nearly as calm as she pretended to be.

Her insides churned. No. He had no right to control her. _I forbid it._ Her heart was not _his_ , not entirely. _It is wrong._ So was he. His very existence was _wrong_ , to the core, though none of the Cats here knew it.

Alone on the streets, a young queen is helpless. She was never helpless, drawing on the strength of the earth beneath her feet. But it was easier to be seen escorted than to constantly defend, and so, in desperation, she had created _him._ He looked like her. He spoke as she did. It was only with great effort that he could pull away and move independently. For all the world, they appeared to be twins. And so that was what they had become: Tantomile the Witch's Cat and her twin brother Coricopat.

She wanted to scream. He was her creation, how _dare_ he dictate what she was allowed to do? For all her life until she had created him she had been alone, even after he had come into her life she had been utterly alone. It was not entirely because she possessed the gift of sorcery, but also because she was quite unlikable. Now, when she had found what might be called love, he denied her of its joy.

That was how Plato found her. He murmured something about looking for her all day; she did not hear. She felt as if her heart was frozen within her chest, hardening against the creation that dared to disobey her.

Common sense dictated that Coricopat was, despite her anger, correct. It was grossly unfair of her to find love in a tom that had already taken a mate, and to throw her concerns to the wayside. She had her duty to the tribe to think of, failing that there was also the issue of Victoria. Part of her retorted that she had never liked Victoria that much, and did not particularly care if her delicate feelings were hurt.

Somehow, Plato's presence brought a sense of comfort, of warmth, and desperation to the cold environs of her heart and the world around her. Soon it would be winter.


	2. Fruition

They found Coricopat two days later, lying in a freshly bloodied snow drift, the stuff of his life spread out on the clean whiteness for all to see. There was no sign of the perpetrator, but suspicions abounded; for a while, it was the tribe's favorite pastime, to guess what might have befallen the young tom. Tantomile mourned, as was proper, and sought comfort in Plato. No one asked questions, and no one talked behind her back, at least not yet. It was only natural for a queen who had lost her brother to take refuge in a friend. There could surely be no ill intent in this thing.

She had lost the thing most dear to her in all the world. Perhaps she had, but then again perhaps not.

They consummated their union later that week, with as much secrecy as possible. There was an empty den that had once belonged to a long dead elder. They took this den as their own and spent hours there together, returning to their separate dens when they had to part. For now it was necessary to maintain the façade of normalcy. One day, they would confront the issues that forced them to hide their courtship, and that day would be soon.

She was certain that somehow they would find a way to deal with the problem of Victoria. If the other queen, more possessive than most, would not see reason and allow Plato to love as he saw fit, Tantomile had already resolved herself to dealing with that problem the same way she had dealt with Coricopat. It was a necessary evil, to allow her heart to heal, to feel love after all this time in loneliness. And besides, surely Victoria could not believe that she would be Plato's only love forever and ever.

Winter grew colder. Tantomile frowned more often with each passing day. She took to spending more time outside the junkyard, thinking. All her planning and careful consideration was beginning to spiral out of control. Coricopat was dead, and Victoria would be dealt with soon enough, but the tribe was learning, bit by bit, of her union – it could not be called mating, not yet anyway – with Plato, and the other Jellicles were not responding as she had hoped. She had thought to find understanding, but encountered questioning bitterness instead.

Was this how she would honor her brother's memory, now that he was gone? Well, yes. That had been the plan. He had become a nuisance and forfeited his chance to live when he forbid her from being with the tom she wanted. His role had been to protect, to help, not to interfere. But she could not explain that without explaining also his blasphemous origins and admitting her role in his demise. Perhaps they would praise her for destroying a creature of such utter wrongness; perhaps they would shun her for her deceit.

The threat of exile frightened her more than anything but losing Plato.


	3. Alternation

Whispered words were not meant to hurt, to be overheard.

 _It is forbidden._ It seemed that everything she did was forbidden. She knew for a fact that everything she had done before was forbidden. That was the way of the world. One was allowed to play at being a god, but for that one would also face ridicule and exile. Tantomile refused to be exiled. Refused unless Plato could go with her. And he would not go with her, no matter what.

They were not supposed to fight, not after all she had done to bring them together. Everything was supposed to be perfect now. They fought anyway.

Somewhere along the line, her beloved had decided that it might not be so bad to have two willing queens at his disposal. And, failing that, he would not leave his already-established relationship with Victoria. This simply would not do. Unfortunately, the tom would not see reason.

Tantomile twitched. It was a movement of her whole body, not just the tail as was her usual habit. The motion followed wherever she went and would not leave her alone. It betrayed her turmoil. She grew more and more certain that everything would come into the open, and paranoia just made the twitching worse. The others began to notice, and they did not approve.

She heard whispers wherever she went, but she could never quite figure out who was doing the talking. There was talk of witchcraft, of course, black magics that had killed Coricopat and stolen his sister's soul. No one blamed her, not yet, but soon enough they would. It was only a matter of time.

A few days more, cold gray winter days that bled one into the other like a blur, and there were suspicions of guilt flung her way. She overheard by a cleverly planned accident. Apologies were blurted, excuses made, and nothing at all was solved.

_You know what happened to Coricopat, don't you?_

Tantomile stewed. All the things they might possibly accuse her of, she had done - all those things and more, she was sure. She had conjured life and soul from nothingness, had given it a name and made a protector of her creation. When it had ceased to be useful, she had killed it without mercy or remorse. She had tried to steal a tom from his sanctioned mate, and would not give him back to the queen he loved even after he chose not to stay with her.

Two more days, and she was summoned before the Jellicle Leader to plead her case. Even Plato refused to look at her.

There was no excuse and no escape. What she had done was part and parcel of who she was, and there was no point in denying it. The truth would come out eventually; one could only hide one's true nature for so long.

 _Witch._ Whispered in hatred, in fear, the title hurt. She had been proud of it once. Not so, now.


	4. Winterbloom

It was not safe for a queen to wander the streets alone. It never had been, never would be. Much comfort _that_ gave to a queen whose tribe had forsaken her.

Tantomile staggered under an invisible weight, wobbling her way through wintry alleys just dusted with new snow. She was weaker than she had ever been: heartsick, alone, and wounded, without even her so-called brother to protect her. Blood dripped.

She had been stupid, at the end. She had lost her temper and lashed out, solving nothing and wounding herself in the process. They had forced her to leave then; she had, stupidly, given them exactly the reason they needed to get rid of her for good. There was no longer any need for a confession, attacking another tribe member in earnest was reason enough to be rid of her.

_Not in her right mind_. That was what they had said, whispered words that followed as she left them forever. Whisper, whisper, whisper. That was all they ever did, all anyone ever did. She seldom faced real accusations, but in the face of whispered wrongs the result was ever the same. _Be gone from here, witch cat_.

Well, it was all settled anyway. She was on her way, away from yet another _there_ , away from yet another false sense of love, of family, in an endless cycle of acceptance and rejection.

Days, weeks, moons… all time bled together into an endless, pointless existence. At first, she was astonished at her own survival, but as wonder wore off she began to wander, gathering strength as she went. If she was meant to survive, then she would do so to the best of her ability. As the days passed, her wounds healed and her strength returned, and she swore that she would have no more dealings with those she had once called family.

And if some of those once-beloved cats sickened over that weird, witchy winter and did not live to see the first dawn of spring, well, that had nothing to do with her, for she was already on her way to someplace else. And if, on her journey, she encountered a strong young tom, who pledged himself to stay beside her and protect her always, well, that was just the kindness of his heart reaching out to a helpless other.

And when at last Tantomile came to a place where she had never been before, where the cats knew nothing of her name or her past, she smiled a secret smile. She went to these new cats, her young tom by her side, and made herself part of a family. Perhaps _this_ was the place she would call home. She would find out soon enough.

If it wasn't, well, she would simply move on and start again. She knew well enough the workings of the world.

Time cycles in circles, moving endlessly onward, around, and back again. Life must always return to the beginning and start over again.


End file.
